


Technicalities

by WitchFlame (RachelMcN)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Exorcisms, Gen, Generous Interpretation of Orders, Humor, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), accidentally of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23949781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachelMcN/pseuds/WitchFlame
Summary: An angel would never dare to ignore a direct order or a heavenly mandate. However...Somebody should really look a little closer at a certain angel's interpretation of such orders.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 87





	Technicalities

The demons wings are soft against the skin of his hands. Aziraphale pets them gently, teasing feathers back into place as he listens to the demon breathing quietly upon his lap. Sunken in sleep and is that not just the wonder? He had believed sleep to be a wholly human endeavour. 

He should leave, really. Before the demon wakes. How long would a demon even sleep for, he ponders. What a strange being. He does not fit what Aziraphale has been led to believe about the Fallen at all. He is safe now, in any case. Aziraphale hopes his interference was not too noticeable but he could not very well walk away when he saw the dire straits the poor demon was in. 

Well, best not to linger. He extracts himself carefully, gently laying the demon upon the bare ground as he shifts the weight from atop his lap. The demon twitches, a soft sound whispering from between his lips. 

“Sleep well,” Aziraphale soothes, running a hand over the demons head, “Nobody will bother you.” He weaves a miracle into his words, a simple compulsion to overlook and avoid the vulnerable demon while he rests. He pushes himself to his feet, idly brushing dust from his robe. “Goodbye Crawly,” he whispers, stepping lightly away before he is caught tending to one of the Opposition. He is an angel, after all, he would never so blatantly disregard an order not to interact with one of the Enemy. 

Quite literally, Crawly was not even awake to interact with. 

He did not mean to walk in on a demon. 

“Oh, thank _fuck,”_ the demon wheezes as he pales in the rotting doorway. He really should not inspire such relief in one of Heaven’s Fallen. He is hardly to blame though, surely, for what – or who – the demon chooses to place his faith in. He cannot control the thoughts of the Enemy. 

“What on earth are you doing?” he demands, staring at the curling figure. He was given new orders, to thwart the wiles of demons. How is he to do that, if he doesn’t know what wiling they are getting up to? New orders always come before old, in conflicts; that is the way of things. Clearly, he must be allowed to interact with the demon, in the pursuit of thwarting. It only makes sense. Nobody has informed him otherwise up until this point, at any rate. 

“Powering nefarious occult rites of death and destruction and all that,” the demon retorts, baring his fangs in a rictus grin, “It’s a real pain. Seriously, this hurts angel, do you think you could help me out?” 

He has drawn forward as the demon speaks, studying the runes carved in elaborate circles around Crowley’s prone form. As he crouches to trace one of the sigils, recalling its purpose, he notes the strained panting of the demon; a vast reservoir of his power must already have been drained towards whatever purpose his ~~captor~~ occult partner in crime intends for it. That simply will not do. 

In the ethereal plane, his wings spread. His power burns as the markings scrawled into the stone floor wisp into ash and dust and are lost in a single powerful flap of his wings. The demon slumps, groaning, freed of the infernal binds he was subject to. 

“Hell below, that’s better,” the demon gasps, “summons are the devils – Er...well, _somebody’s_ blessed work.” He hums lowly, watching the demon carefully. Crowley doesn’t appear permanently harmed by the venture. “Guess I owe you lunch,” the demon tempts, with a tilted head and wicked grin. 

“I suppose so,” he agrees lightly. He really should not have burned away _all_ of the circle but he had no way of knowing how close a potential wile was to completion and it was hardly the time to be cautious. It is only right that he ensures the demon remains where he can keep an eye on him, after he so foolishly released the Enemy back upon the world. “I passed a wonderful little tavern on the way here.” There is no reason he cannot enjoy doing so, in the meantime. 

“Oh dear,” he permits himself to murmur as he observes the ritualistic proceedings. He marches swiftly forward as the witch hunter raises his blessed crop, the cowering demon cringing among the baying midst of the village. “That’s quite enough of that,” he tuts, a sharp snap rendering the surrounding humans into a state of dreaming awe as the witch hunters arm falls boneless, the crop slipping from limp fingers. The demon twists, her golden eyes finding Aziraphale with relief. 

“Shall we go?” he prompts, wisely driving the demon from the vicinity of these poor humans and their dwellings before they can be tempted into debauchery and ruin. Honestly, the man is a _witch_ finder, he is in far over his head with one of the Fallen. The demon falters as she tries to stand, her legs betraying her under the blessed manacles she wears. He swipes a hand across the metal, unconcerned as the clasps release and the demon sharply pulls herself away from their touch. It is not worth contemplating, what a demon could do with blessed materials; best to negate the possibility entirely. 

The demon leans on him as he guides her away from the defenceless humans. Tempting them into murder; what a nefarious wile. They are lucky he came across the demon when he did. He best tend to her, to ensure their souls remain unstained by such a sin. He cannot be seen to leave a job half done. 

“Angel?” a voice calls to him, “ _Aziraphale?”_ He blinks past the all consuming haze, heaving. The congregations chanting rings in his ears. “Wait, _wait,”_ the demon pleads as he unfolds into their space, answering their plea for assistance in damnation of the demon they have captured. “Angel it’s _me,”_ the demon shrieks as he tries to make sense of their conflicting requests, “It’s Cr- look, _you know me.”_ The demons eyes are wide, burnished yellow; hollow endless black pupils thickening as he approaches, scrambling back within the holy confines. 

_Punish him,_ the humans demand, _make the demon regret setting foot upon our land, take him from our presence._ His wings fill the cathedral, his True Self craning over the demon who pleads frantically even as the humans remain blind to his presence. His oxen head snorts, eyes aglow; his lions head snarls. His human head contemplates his summoners, considers their words as his eagle beak snaps down and swallows the demon whole. 

Crowley is still screaming as Aziraphale folds himself back into his mortal corporation, blinking as he readjusts to a single pair of eyes. “Really, my dear,” he huffs, “do you have to be quite so loud?” 

The demon cuts himself off sharply, warily peeking past his raised arms. 

“You were barely in my beak for a moment,” Aziraphale sniffs, “a few seconds at the most. I don’t see how else I was supposed to transport you out of there. I suppose you could have ridden one of my wheels but they are hardly going to stay stable for a passenger, and I did not fancy having you poke out any of my eyes. I do have a lot of them.” Crowley stares at him and gives a short wheeze that he is fairly certain is aborted laughter. He did just leave the presence of consecrated ground after a strong exorcism; it is probably just the shock. Aziraphale will let it pass this time. 

“Now,” he sighs, “they did make their desires very plain and you know that I have to concede to them, I’m sure.” He sees the demon tense as he steps away, running a finger along the spines of his beloved collection. 

“Aziraphale,” comes the croaking protest, “you don’t – ” 

“Ah,” he exclaims happily, tilting his selection softly away from its brethren, “I do seem to recall your distaste for this particular author. I’ve never understood your aversion to be perfectly frank but needs must.” He turns, beaming, to find the demon still collapsed upon his floor. “Well, don’t just sit there,” he pouts, “put the kettle on, there’s a dear boy. Er, I mean, very naughty demon.” 

He wags a warning finger as Crowley stares at him. “Now don’t go bothering the good people of...of wherever that was again, do you hear me? I’m not letting you go until we’ve had a nice reading session; well, not nice, I am supposed to be punishing you after all but Oscar Wilde will not _literally_ make your ears bleed and you know that as well as I do.” 


End file.
